Honest Hearts Don't Freeze
by Cortega
Summary: Three years after the Great Freeze, Elsa rules Arendelle with a capable hand, and for the first time in a long time, she's content. It's more than Elsa could have ever expected before she became queen. But as foreign powers threaten to drag Arendelle into war, Elsa is forced to confront her own feelings. "My lady, this will go much easier if we agree to be honest with one another."
1. Frozen to the Bones, I Am

**Chapter One: Frozen to the Bones, I Am**

The nightmare was a familiar one to Elsa, but that didn't make it any less frightening.

She was alone in the castle, her own room, she thought. Her breath misted before her eyes and she wrapped her arms around herself as she cast her gaze about the empty room, cold seeping into her bones.

_Wrong…_

She never got cold. Even when she'd scaled the mountains north of Arendelle in the middle of a raging blizzard, she'd felt warmer than she'd ever been. Free. This was different. Not just a physical cold, but _dread._ Dread creeping up her spine as she set foot on the cold stone floor and pulled open the door of her room, ice splintering from the frame and shattering on the ground. She stepped out, icy filaments stretched across the hall to her right, only the way left clear, the way to the throne room.

The way to Anna.

She set a careful foot on an ice-encrusted patch of stone, breath catching in her chest as her foot nearly slid out from under her.

_Wrong…_

She never slipped, not even when she'd fled across the fjord on the night of her coronation. She found a tapestry, fabric clenched in her fist as she made her way down the hall, temperature dropping with every step, breath fogging her vision as she made her way to the place that all her nightmares had started.

The throne room was nearly unrecognizable. Jagged crystals of ice bloomed around her like a forest, frozen fractals clawing their way skyward. She walked among the frosty pillars, her own visage reflected back at her a thousand times, her own gift—_curse—_thrown back in her face. In the mirror's eyes she saw guilt, longing, loneliness. A decade of isolation taking its toll.

_"Elsa?"_

She gasped, turned, eyes wide in panic and horror. Anna. Plain as day, green eyes glittering with mirth, mouth quirked up in an amused smile.

"Anna? What are doing here?" She couldn't be here, _shouldn't_ be here.

Her sister was silent for a moment, striding up to her amongst the towers of ice, _"What kind of question is that? I'm your sister."_

"You can't be here! You need to get out of here!"

"Why?" Anna smiled indulgently, tilting her head, "Afraid you'll freeze me again?"

_Wrong…_

Anna would never do that, never throw that in her face. Elsa backed away, hands fisted in the gossamer fabric of her ice-woven gown, but Anna kept pace with her, that smile still set on her face.

_"It's okay,"_ She said. Her voice was stinging now, anger and bitterness ringing with every word, _"You'd never do anything to hurt me, right Elsa? You'd never hurt your only sister."_ Already her fingers were icing over, hair lightening, whitening with every step, a viral frost spreading from her heart like winter's plague. In that same contemptuous voice, she sneered, _"Why would you ever do such a thing, Elsa?"_

"Stop it, Anna, please!" Elsa screamed as she slid to the floor. Head bowed,knees buckled, tears falling as she fought to deny what was before her. Anna was alive, healthy, thriving! This was only a dream.

_Don't feel, don't feel, don't feel._

_"MOTHER!"_

A new voice cut through the gloom. A despaired plea.

Anna was gone. The _ice_ was gone.

In its place was a new sort of hell. It was a throne room, yes, but a different throne, different stone under her feet. The room was bathed in a dim red color, light flickering from spent torches and guttering hearths, embers glowing in the darkness. A corridor much like the one she'd come through led the way out, flickering light beckoning.

She stepped into the hall, arms around herself at the sight of it. It must have been richly adorned once, tapestries and paintings covering the walls with stories and scenes unknown to her. But that was all gone now. In its place was nothing but fire and ash.

Wall hangs burned brightly, flames licking up the walls and to the ceiling. Along the side of the hall, the ashen wrecks of fine furniture sagged, scorched and broken. What may have once been well-made woven carpets from south of the Mediterranean were now little more than ash and cinders. Black marks marred the walls where beautiful paintings had once hung, their frames empty and charred, only fragments of a mural left where the paint had peeled away.

_"Mother, where are you?!"_

That voice again—a man's she was sure now—rang out from deeper within the dream. She thought about running, fleeing, but something stopped her. The anguish she'd heard in that voice rang too strongly within her, and she heard it still in her ears long after it had fallen silent. He was like her.

She pushed on, edging past the flames as the heat laved against her pale skin. What greeted her in the next hallways was still more fire, hotter and redder, a rhythmic crackling sound resounding through the corridors as it devoured the papered walls. She stepped forward tentatively, only to jerk forward as she heard the sound of splintering wood above her. Stumbling forward, she fell to the floor, turning to see that the ceiling had crumbled behind her into a pile of burning beams and broken stone. No way back.

_"Mother, I'm sorry! Please don't leave me!"_

It was him again, the man. Just ahead, it almost seemed. His voice broke and a wretched sob echoed through the halls, the sound once again hanging in Elsa's mind as she hurried away from the wreckage. A door at the end of the hall was the only way forward. She hesitated for a moment as she drew close to it, pausing with her hand raised, as though to knock on the door. If it weren't for the flames licking at the walls she would have laughed at her own absurdity.

Mindful of the flames, she brushed the back of her hand gingerly against the metal handle of the door. Warm, but not too hot. It would be safe to proceed. Steeling herself with a breath, she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

It was definitely a bedroom, though one gutted by the same fires that burned outside. Here, however, they still burned readily in the corners, the rest of the room's furnishings reduced to ash. The small flames cast flickering shadows on the walls, twisted images of things burnt and lost. If she hadn't been specifically looking for him, she would have overlooked the Stranger entirely.

He knelt in the center of the room, head tilted upward, shoulders slumped, face streaked with soot and tears as a cloud of ash drifted up and away from him, as though carried by an unseen wind. His eyes held no more tears, however, fixed upward in an expression of forlorn sorrow. Hands limp at his side, he held his gaze for a few moments longer before bowing his head.

"I'm sorry," He whispered.

Elsa took a step forward, then another, more sure of herself. Quietly she knelt down beside the man, "Are you alright?"

He blinked, his gaze focusing and finding hers, dark eyes meeting her own clear blue, "You…you're real, aren't you?" He said in half a whisper, as though he didn't believe it himself, "You're no shade of my dream, though I doubt I could imagine one as beautiful as you…"

Elsa felt her cheeks redden—she didn't even know that could _happen_ here—and opened her mouth to reply, but stopped when she felt a hand on her shoulder, cold fingers against her skin.

_"There you are!"_ Anna's voice rang, tinkling as though ice were creeping up her throat, _"Were you trying to run away?" _

Elsa shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to will away the frost encroaching up her arms, turning to face her sister when another hand stopped her. Warm and comforting against her cheek, the Stranger's palm turned her gaze back to him as he shook his head, eyes never leaving hers.

"Don't," He uttered, voice stronger now, "Don't look at her. She's not _real_, she's just a shade of your dream. You don't have to give her power."

His voice faltered as he tried to find the words to go on, but she placed her own hand over his, "We'll be alright."

He nodded, smiling at her, "I'm here, I'm real."

She smiled back, the nervousness she felt drying up at the reassurance in his voice, "I'm here, I'm real."

The nightmares did not visit her again that night.

0000000000

Elsa awoke alone, as she always did. In the few moments it took her eyes to focus, she palmed the sheets of her bed. Warm. She hadn't frosted the bed over again. It happened when she dreamed: she made the cold outside match the cold she felt within, ice creeping along the walls and ceiling at times, until she stirred in the morning to a cold and empty bed.

But this time was different, wasn't it? There was that _man_. Already the details were slipping away from her conscious mind. Dark hair, dark eyes, a voice that reassured her, made her feel like the nightmares would all just go away.

Who _was_ he? Just a figment of her imagination? No, he'd refuted as much, hadn't he? _I'm here, I'm real._ He'd said that, and the conviction in his voice had showed that he'd meant it. It was something to keep the nightmares away at least.

She broke from her thoughts as she heard a knock on her door, the rhythmic staccato of the sound leaving no doubt as to who it was: Anna. Only she knew that knock.

"Elsa?" Her voice floated past the door, high and clear and joyful, nothing like the tinkling reproach of her dreams, "You up yet?"

She took a moment to shake away the thoughts of her dreams, looking down to straighten out her sleeping gown, "Yeah. Come in, I'm decent."

Anna pushed the door open, and Elsa let out a quiet sigh of relief. No ice. No frozen heart. Her sister looked at her, taking in her appearance, noting the sigh. Her face fell, "Nightmares again?"

"No," She shook her head, "I thought I was having one, but then…" Elsa considered the strangeness of the previous night's dream, and decided that the only thing she really _could_ say was the truth, "I'm not really sure."

Anna eyed her for one long moment, "You're sure you're okay? You've been working yourself really hard lately."

"I'm fine, I promise," Elsa said, trying not to dismiss her out of hand.

"You're _really_ sure—"

Elsa sighed, "If I start feeling unwell, I'll take the rest of the day off, how about it?"

Anna considered it for a moment, then nodded, "Alright, I'll allow it," Brightening up, she went to the windows and drew open the curtains, Elsa wincing slightly as the morning came crashing through the windows, "Do you think it'll snow?"

"Anna, it's June."

"I mean up in the mountains. Kristoff's off selling ice, remember? He said they''d be stopping in the mountains for a week to harvest more ice to store for the rest of the summer. He likes it when it snows. Reminds him of the time we met three years ago…" She gazed off dreamily for a moment before she realized what she'd said, "N-not that we'd want to repeat that! I mean, why would we? Not that it was bad, or your fault or anything, it was my fault—or _his_ fault—"

"Anna!" Elsa held up both hands as her sister managed to stem her babbling, "It's alright, I get it."

Anna giggled sheepishly and tugged at a stray hair, not meeting her eyes, "Right, sorry. Are you, uh, ready to start the day?"

Elsa smiled in return, "Let's try to get _something_ done before dark, okay?"

As Anna nodded and started to drag her from the room, Elsa remembered something, the last fragment of her dreams. It was something the Stranger had said. That last moment she'd seen him, she thought he'd said one last thing:

_"I'll be here if your dreams turn black again. Find the light in the darkness."_

0000000000

Kristoff Bjorgman was having a good day. His group had finished selling off the rest of their ice, he had the day off, and he was spending the rest of the evening just relaxing with the boys at the tavern. They'd have to head out to the Arendelle mountains the next morning if they were to harvest enough ice to replenish their stock for the rest of the summer, but tonight was for them to unwind and have a good time. He saw some of his workmates ogling the waitresses and rolled his eyes. There was a time he'd have done the same, but…things were different now. He smiled warmly as his thoughts turned to Anna.

"Now that's the smile of a man daydreaming about a pretty girl."

At the sound of a foreign, slightly accented voice, he turned to see a dark-haired stranger seat pull himself onto the barstool beside him. He was dressed head to foot in dark clothing, a dark cloak drawn around his shoulders, though the place seemed quite warm enough. His pants were of some tough, resistant-looking fabric, the fading at the knees telling Kristoff that this man was no stranger to hard work. His gloves looked to be of fine make—good leather, if a bit worn—but the fingers had been destroyed (not simply cut off, it was too clean for that.) Still, the stranger's hands seemed undamaged, as he rubbed them against his chest, where he wore a toughened vest over what seemed to be a fine silk shirt. Strange combination of clothing on a man who looked as though he hadn't slept indoors in a week.

Kristoff's smile faded and he raised an eyebrow, "Do I know you?"

The stranger smiled genially and raised a hand, signaling the bartender, "Two whiskeys, if you please. The best you've got."

The bartender eyed him, "You got the coin?"

He nodded, dipping a hand under his cloak. There was a clinking sound as he withdrew a single gold coin. Holding it between his fingers with an amused grin, he offered it to the other man, "Real enough for you?"

Kristoff turned to the bartended, Elias, as he took the coin. He'd known the man for several years, and he knew that he had a sharp eye for telling false gold from the real thing. Elias' eyes grew wide at the imprint on the gold, "This is…"

"Carthaginian gold," The stranger said, "Mined in Anatolia and forged in Carthage itself. You won't find finer coin anywhere north of the Mediterranean."

"Our currency is just as valid as yours," Kristoff retorted as Elias hurried off, practically floating as he eyed the gold coin with a grin.

The stranger regarded him for a long moment, breaking his gaze only to thank the bartender as he returned with the drinks. Sliding one over to Kristoff, he spoke, "I suppose you're wondering exactly what I'm doing here."

"That would be a start," Kristoff took a look at the alcohol in front of him. Elias wouldn't have spiked it or anything like that, but he was generally suspicious of apparently wealthy strangers offering him drinks. It had saved his butt a few times.

"Drink it, it's not gonna kill you," The other man said. Kristoff relented and took a sip—it _was_ their finest—and the stranger continued, "I need passage to Arendelle."

"Oh?" This was a new one, "What makes you think I can help you with that?"

"You're the only company making heading there for the next month. I could charter a ship, but…let's just say I don't have much confidence in merchant ships. I asked around the members of your company, and apparently you're the one calling the shots."

Kristoff grimaced. It hadn't been his intention to take over the company, but when the owner had retired, he'd figured it was a good idea to have the new head be someone someone competent, even if they'd never run a business before. So the old man made the Official Arendelle Ice Master and Deliverer the new company head. Now he oversaw an operation of over forty men and had to manage…finances. While he appreciated the old man's faith in him, sometimes he wished he'd had a few more years as just a harvester. He still worked out in the field with the men, but it was more limited. He had other duties now.

"So what do you say?" In his recollections, he'd almost forgotten the stranger entirely.

Kristoff mulled it over, taking another sip, "Taking you on would stretch our provisions and take up space we could use for ice. Why should I trade that for you?"

The man grinned, "I have a rather unique set of talents. I do a lot of traveling, but take me on and I can guarantee that this expedition of yours will be the most comfortable you've ever had."

Kristoff had no idea what the guy was talking about, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I suppose you could say I'm a fire-tender. I tend fires. It's in the name."

This day was getting stranger and stranger, "Why would I need someone like that? We can make fires on our own."

"Yes," The stranger nodded, "You could. And your cabin would still be uncomfortably cold, and the beds would still chill you to your bones."

"And you're saying you can, what, make a snowy mountaintop feel like this tavern?"

"No, Mr. Bjorgman, I'm saying that I can make your cabin feel like a day at the beach." Kristoff just stared at him, skeptical, "Look, how about we make a deal. Take me with you tomorrow—it's no loss, you're not carrying anything yet—and give me one day to prove my talents to you. If you're satisfied, all I need are lodgings and food, and I can keep the place toasty warm."

"And if _we're_ not?" Kristoff stressed the plural. It wasn't just his coin he was betting, it was everyone's.

"Kick me out, I'll make my way down the other side of the mountains to Arendelle, and we never have to speak again. I swear it to the Lorn Mother."

Kristoff had to admit he was impressed. Not everyone would have the guts to pull a stunt like this one. Groaning and imagining how Anna would call him a softie for this one, he reached into his bag and pulled out a ledger, dropping it on the bar with a thump and turning to the employee payroll, "Alright, man, I'll wager on you."

The stranger seemed surprised for a moment, then broke into a grin, "Thank you for this, Mr. Bjorgman. You won't regret this!"

"You can call me Kristoff. Might as well get used to it if you're bunking with us for a week. Now, what's your name?"

The stranger winced slightly, knocking back the rest of his drink, "Hanno."

"Hanno what?"

He seemed uncomfortable, "Just put me down as 'none given'. I haven't seen my family in years."

"I'm sorry."

"Not your fault," Hanno waved his hand dismissively.

"You're not a criminal are you?"

"No!"

Kristoff grinned, "I'm kidding. You're in."

Hanno smiled back, dark eyes flashing with mirth, "Thank you, Kristoff. I know you took a gamble on me. I promise I'll hold up my end of the bargain." He held out a hand, which Kristoff gripped in his own.

"Welcome to the company of Kristoff Bjorgman, Hanno."

* * *

**Hi, me again. New fanfic and all that. I know I have trouble finishing stories, but this one has been bouncing around in my head for weeks demanding that I write it, growing and maturing all the while. What could I do but comply?**

**Simply put, I fell irrevocably in love with this fandom from the moment I first saw the movie. I only hope I can live up to the shadow of its greatness.**

**I guess the only thing left to do is beg for reviews, right?**

**…nah, forget it. You guys are cool already. (Get it?)**


	2. A Light in the Darkness

**Chapter Two: A Light in the Darkness**

Elsa groaned as she let Anna pull her away from her study, "But I was in the middle of the chapter!"

"And I saved your page for you," Anna grunted as she pushed her sister down the hall toward the throne room, "Look, the new Consul General from Carthage arrived by ship yesterday and he's been waiting all day to meet you. And you _know_ it has to be you, so don't even try to palm this off on me. It's an affront to the Carthaginians if they don't meet the Head of State, and that head—stubborn as she is—is you."

Elsa let out a weary sigh. With her vivacious personality, she often forgot that Anna was much smarter than she gave her credit for, "Alright, alright. Stop pushing!" She straightened herself and smoothed out her gown as her sister stopped struggling with her, "Do you even know anything about Carthage?"

Anna grinned, obviously eager to show that she _did_ indeed know something, "The Empire of Carthage was founded in 196 BC after Hannibal Barca defeated Rome and was elected emperor."

Elsa smiled as she kept walking, "If I wanted you to just repeat what your history tutors told you, I'd have asked them myself."

Her sister pouted, "Hey! I'm trying my best!"

Elsa shook her head, "Fine. Go on, then."

She brightened a bit, the liveliness coming back to her face, "It all really only happened because Hannibal beat Scipio at Zama. If he hadn't, it's quite possible the Romans would have destroyed Carthage entirely."

"Also correct," Elsa inclined her head at her sister as they reached the great double doors to the throne room, "Now, do you understand the significance of Hannibal being _elected_ Emperor?"

Anna opened her mouth to answer, but all that came out was a quiet drone of uncertainty, "Uh…"

"Search it up after this meeting," She said, pushing open the doors and sweeping into the hall in that regal manner of hers, "Oh, and Anna?" She looked over her shoulder, smiling mischievously, "There _will_ be a test later."

Anna smiled as the Queen of Arendelle moved across the room to her throne. Her sister has just _told a joke_. Three years ago, she'd never have dreamed of anything like that, "Of course, _Your Majesty._"

Elsa just shook her head with a chuckle, settling into her throne. Anna took her place at her right, on a smaller throne off to the right, lower on the dais as was proper. Once the two were settled comfortably, Elsa raised her voice to Kai where he stood at the other end of the hall, "Show them in."

She was slightly surprised when only a single man strode into the room, confident and unhesitating in his movement. He was sure of himself, she'd give him that. He certainly bore a striking resemblance to the statues and portraits of Hannibal Barca that she'd seen throughout her education: dark eyes, high cheekbones, and olive skin all lent him that distinctive Phoenician appearance as he approached the throne. His dark hair was cut short, and his beard was trimmed to a respectable length around his squared jaw. He wore a blue and gold surcoat of fine silk over a padded shirt, a mantle of dark blue, trimmed with silver thread, was fastened about his shoulders by a gold chain. His expression was studiously neutral as he approached the dais falling to his left knee to kneel before the queen, head bowed.

"Hail, Elsa, Lady of Wind and Snow, Fair Maiden of Arendelle, and Queen on the Winter Throne. I bring the greetings and friendship of my liege, Emperor Salicar," He said, his voice low and deep, his accent surprisingly faint.

"Greetings, Ambassador," She said formally, "I would know your name before we proceed." It was the polite thing to do, and it would give her a chance to learn his name and titles. She knew how the Carthaginians loved their titles, the way the newcomer had addressed her proved that much.

His neutral expression wavered, and the ghost of a smile passed across his face for a moment as he looked up, "I am Mago Renata Barca of Utica, son of Mathos Dorian, Fifth Prince of Carthage and Ambassador General to the Emperor."

Anna stiffened for a moment at the ambassador's introduction. She'd had bad enough experiences with those far down in the line of succession. Elsa's brow furrowed slightly for an entirely different reason as she processed the new information. This changed things a bit: Emperor Salicar of Carthage had sent his top man to treat with them. This couldn't be so simple as a new consul.

"I see. Forgive our lack of reception to you, Prince Mago. I was unaware that Emperor Salicar was sending his chief diplomat to our small kingdom," She hoped this wouldn't cause problems further down the road, "You may rise."

The ambassador stood, his mantle wrapping around him to enclose most of his body, "Nonsense, Your Grace. I was more than satisfied with my reception. Your kingdom is as beautiful as you are, and I would have hated to miss it because I was too busy paying attention to protocol," A thought seemed to occur to him, and he tilted his head, a sly grin playing across his lips as his neutral veneer fell away altogether, "I doubt my daughter would have forgiven me either. We don't have fjords of any kind in Utica."

Elsa flushed at the compliment, color rising lightly in her cheeks as Anna relaxed in her seat, "Your daughter?"

The prince's smile brightened, "She's with my wife in your antechamber, may I…?"

Elsa nodded, smiling, "I don't see why not. Kai," She called to her longtime attendant, "Would you?"

"Of course, milady," He bowed, stepping out of the throne room for a brief moment.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Prince Mago said, bowing his head, "This also makes it easier to give you our presents."

Elsa blinked in surprise. She hadn't expected that either, "Presents?" She repeated, confused.

The prince smiled broadly, "I could hardly violate two thousand years of tradition and fail to present gifts to the new ruler of Arendelle. Think of it as a late coming-of-age gift, an apology for missing your coronation three years ago."

Elsa was saved from having to reply by Kai's return to the hall. Following behind were two women, one older than Elsa, the other definitely much younger, not even an adult, each carrying a polished wooden case: the woman's was somewhat bulky, and the girl's long, flat, and thin. The woman—Mago's wife, she assumed—was rather graceful in her movements, even despite the flowing jade dress she wore and the large box she carried. With her dark hair and olive skin, she could have been Carthaginian herself, but her hazel eyes betrayed a more recent European ancestry.

The girl was rather similar, though she moved with less grace than her mother and less surety than her father. What she lacked little of was energy; every motion seemed to radiate a joy for life that Elsa hadn't seen anywhere but in her sister. She wore her hair in a single dark braid, and had donned a relatively informal summer dress over pants and boots: short enough to move freely in, but not enough as to be immodest. It reminded her of something Anna might wear. She risked a glance at her sister to find her grinning sunnily at the sight of the young girl.

Oh, no. Now there were _two_ of them.

Mago Renata Barca seemed to have come to the same conclusion as he looked between his daughter and the Princess of Arendelle. His gaze jumped to Elsa again as they both came to the realization that they may have created a monster or two. As the woman drew level with the prince, she set the box down and leaned against him. He pressed a kiss to her brow and his eyes softened.

"Your Grace, may I introduce you to my wife, Melara?"

"A pleasure," Elsa greeted.

"Likewise, Your Grace," Lady Melara replied evenly, curtseying and bowing her head.

"And this is my daughter, Tanit Allaria, Eight Princess of Carthage."

The girl came to a halt beside her father and almost dropped her box entirely, Mago scrambling for a brief moment to catch its falling end before scowling at the girl. She gave him a sheepish, unrepentant smile before kneeling as her father had.

"I'm _very_ glad to meet you, Your Grace!" She exclaimed, the words tumbling out in a way that reminded Elsa of another princess in the room, albeit a bit more structured.

Elsa was trying to formulate a response to that rather…_enthusiastic_ greeting when Melara chided gently, "Allaria, a lady is supposed to _curtsey_."

Prince Mago sighed and shook his head, "Let her be, Mel."

Anna chose that moment to speak up, "My sister is always happy to meet another princess. I'm Anna! I hope we can be good friends, Allaria."

Mago and his daughter both flinched, Melara's olive skin seemed to pale, and Elsa knew that her sister had crossed a line.

"Anna!" She rebuked, "Some respect, if you please," Oh, no, she did _not_ need her sister starting a war because she'd inadvertently insulted the Carthaginian ambassador. Turning back to the prince, who seemed to have regained his composure, she began to apologize, "I'm sorry for my sister's outburst—"

"No, no," Mago shook his head, "That's not it. It's…pardon me, Your Grace. It's been a long time since I last came north, and I forget the differences in our customs. A Carthaginian's second name is only to be used by blood relatives. Even Mel never calls me _Renata_," He grumbled the last word, and muttered something about his 'fool of a mother'.

Anna had covered her mouth with her hand, "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! It'll never happen again. Can we still be friends? What am I saying of course you must be furious—"

"Anna!"

Surprisingly, it only took one try to get Anna to shut up.

Mago opened his mouth, but his daughter beat him to the punch, "Please don't worry, Princess Anna," She said in an earnest contralto, "It's an honest mistake. You can call me Tanit."

Anna smiled, her composure recovered, "Then you have promise to call me just Anna."

Tanit's mouth quirked into a sly grin, "Okay, 'Just Anna'." The pair broke into a fit of shared giggles.

Elsa smiled. Her sister had made yet another friend, "I think we should retire to the parlor. We've all had our introductions."

Mago nodded, "You might be right, Your Grace."

Elsa stood, descending from the dais with Anna just behind her, "Follow me, then. Oh, and Kai," She raised her voice to catch her attendant's attention, "Have tea and pastries brought to the parlor."

He nodded, "Any preference, milady?"

She shook her head and led her guests out of the throne room. Anna and Tanit hung back, chatting excitably while Lady Melara kept pace with them, carrying the smaller, thinner of the two boxes. Mago held the other one in both hands, walking with Elsa.

"They seem to be getting along well," He remarked.

Elsa chuckled, "Sorry, Anna's just like that. She tends to talk without thinking everything through."

"She'd get along famously with my cousin," Mago said with a huff, "Always diving into things without giving a moment's thought to the consequences."

Elsa smiled more freely. At least someone else understood, "Right? And always asking those _questions!_"

Mago laughed, "They never end. The only way I was able to get my cousin to let up was by cramming as much knowledge through his thick skull as I could. Now he at least thinks before he asks."

"Sounds like you two must be close," Elsa commented. Small talk was still somewhat new to her, but she'd been getting better at it.

But Mago's face fell, his smile turning somewhat sad, "We were, for a long time. But I haven't seen him in so long. He left Carthage because of…family troubles."

Elsa cringed. Somehow she always managed to say the wrong thing, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed."

The prince waved a hand (how he did it while handling that box, she'd never know), "Ah, don't worry about it. He'll be okay. The blood of Hannibal the Dragon flows through his veins; it would take a lot to harm him."

There was something in the way he said it that left Elsa unconvinced, but by the time she'd managed to phrase it they were already in her parlor and Mago had set down his box, groaning and stretching out his back as Melara swept into the room behind him.

"Oh, quit complaining," She uttered without sympathy, "You're the one who went all out with the gifts."

"You didn't have to do that," Elsa said, seating herself on the couch in front of the hearth as Anna practically bounced into the room, somewhere in the middle of explaining to Tanit which staircases had the best rides down the railing. Tanit for her part merely nodded, with a wide eyed expression that made it clear she wished she'd thought of that sooner.

"Of course I did!" Mago retorted happily, dropping into a chair beside her, "We missed your coronation, after all."

"What was up with that anyway?" Anna interjected, one eyebrow raised.

Mago grimaced, "Your Grace's coming-of-age came only a year after the death of Emperor Hiram and the succession crisis that followed, along with the end of our war with the Venetians."

"Which one?" Elsa asked, smirking with amusement.

Mago allowed himself a small laugh at the joke. The antipathy between Carthage and Venice had become almost legendary over the centuries, "The last one. The Red Fleet crushed their navy and drove the stragglers back to their floating city. We'll have to credit the Phoenix with that one."

Their conversation lulled as a servant entered with a cart, bearing tea and an assortment of pastries. The man bowed out as everyone filled their cups and plates. Elsa sipped at her tea while pondering something the Carthaginian prince had just said.

"The Phoenix?"

Mago grinned devilishly now, "He's the reason we won," He took a bite of his cake, his grin still in place. Clearly he wasn't going to say anything more on the subject.

"Would you like to open your presents, Your Grace?" Tanit asked, eyes hopeful.

Something struck Elsa then, a realization, "Why do you keep calling me that?"

"What?"

"_Your Grace,_" Elsa frowned.

Tanit smiled, "It's a Carthaginian style, true, but it seemed to suit you more that calling you _Majesty_. It was my idea, and father took me up on it, but if you want me to stop—"

"No, no," Elsa shook her head, giving the girl a small smile in return, "I kind of like it. It's just new to me," Seeing that she was still unconvinced, "I guess I can open those presents now, if that's alright."

Tanit brightened and clapped her hands together, and Elsa could have sworn that she heard the girl squeal quietly, "Open the big one first!"

Mago reached over and slid the larger of the two boxes over to her, Melara taking the other in her hands. It was a chest of sorts, fairly simple in its construction, with only a single, unlocked latch. Elsa curved a finger under the latch and flipped it up, opening the chest, and stopped dead. She gazed, wide-eyed into what may have been the best gift in all of creation, head snapping up to look at Mago and seeing a smug grin plastered across his face. Oh, he _was_ good.

Anna nudged her, slightly worried, "Elsa, what is—"Then she got a look at the contents of the box, and she too was enraptured.

_Chocolate._ Chocolate of every kind, from all across the continent.

Biting her lip to resist the temptation to just dig in right then and there, Elsa managed to straighten herself upright to look Mago Renata Barca in the eye, "How did you know?"

"We've been doing this for a long time," He said simply, still holding that smirk, "We've gotten _really_ good at it."

"You _really_ have," Anna murmured, fingers twitching as she suppressed the urge to tear into the sweets.

"Wow, you guys really like chocolate, don't you?" Tanit observed.

"Allaria, don't be rude."

"Yes, _mother._"

Mago took the other case from his wife, rapping his knuckles against it to draw Elsa's attention, "I'm of the opinion that this is the greater gift of the two. You might disagree, but…well, you're the queen, I guess. Nevertheless, this was specially made for your hands, Your Grace."

Elsa lifted the case onto her lap as Mago held it out, undoing the three latches and silk ribbon used to hold it shut, slowly lifting away the lid of the case. She took a sharp breath at the sight of it.

"Oh, my…" She breathed, looking up to see the Carthaginian prince grinning again.

"I told you you'd like it, didn't I?"

0000000000

Kristoff huffed tiredly as he finished loading the last of the ice onto the sled, watching the sun disappear over the horizon. They'd need to go at least four more days before they had enough stock to last until winter. The mountain snow beneath his feet shifted as he took measured steps, walking down the slope from the glacier toward the harvester's lodge. It was old, but sturdy, and it had been around since before Kristoff's time. He'd barely stopped in for a moment to leave his belongings before heading out to the glacier with the rest of the men, most of whom had already returned. He stomped his feet to clear his boots of most of the snow that still clung to them, pushing open the door to the lodge.

Immediately he was assaulted by a wave of heat, and he stood in something close to awe with the door ajar before someone shouted at him, "Would you kindly close that bloody door?!" Kristoff startled and hastily shut the door behind him, "And take your boots off! Snow draws heat from the room."

The main hall of the lodge was warmer than Kristoff could remember it ever being. The other harvesters lounged around, heavy coats open in the heat, most with a mug of ale in one hand. In one corner of the hall, their quartermaster Ari had set up shop, a tapped cask telling where the drink had come from and a pot of hot stew ready to serve. Kristoff knew who he had to thank for this newfound comfort, and cast his eyes around the hall until he found him.

Hanno sat before the hall's great hearth, fire blazing from its brick-and-mortar mouth as he held one hand out toward it, almost close enough for the flames to lick at his fingertips. He showed no discomfort, and he gazed into the flames with an expression that was as much sadness as it was contentment, like a man seeing his home after many years away. He didn't move as Kristoff approached, but he subtly shifted in his seat, his hand lowering a degree as the ice harvester came to stand behind him. At this distance the heat of fire seemed almost unreal, like Hanno had brought the sun itself to their little mountain lodge.

Hanno tilted his head back in his direction, "You were out long."

Kristoff shrugged, "I was making sure Sven was comfortable and loading the rest of the ice onto the sleds. The others will make sure it gets to the storage houses until we leave."

"Sven…" The Carthaginian repeated, "That reindeer of yours?"

"Hey, he's been my best friend since I was a kid!"

Hanno held his hands up in surrender, "Hey, hey, I don't judge! I know how it is to have a pet you can tell everything to."

"Who was yours?"

The other man smiled, "A…a lizard, I guess you could say. _Prometheus_ was her name."

Kristoff raised an eyebrow, _"Her?"_

"I was five, in love with the old Greek stories, and she never really complained."

The ice harvester laughed, raising his hands like Hanno had, "Whatever you say, man." Hanno turned back to his flames, stirring the coals with an iron poker, and Kristoff let his smile fade, "Hey, can I ask you a question?"

The fire-tender grinned wryly, "I believe you just did, but I'll give you another."

"Why did you want to come to Arendelle? And why so suddenly?"

Hanno paused, the stirring of the poker coming to a halt, "I don't suppose saying I wanted to see the fjords would work, would it?" At Kristoff's skeptical expression, he sighed, "Didn't think so," He sighed, gesturing for Kristoff to pull up a chair next to him as he reached into the pocket of his vest and withdrew a metal flask. Taking a swig, he handed it over to the other man without looking at him, gazing into the flames, "Would you believe me if I told you it came to me in a dream?"

Kristoff frowned, taking a sip of the drink. It was somewhat bitter, with a strong, herbal undertone, but not so much as to be over powering. Handing it back, he replied, "Maybe. Tell me more. Also, what was that I just drank?"

"Absinthe," Hanno replied easily, knocking back another shot.

"Isn't that supposed to kill you?"

"That's just what the temperance folks want you to think," He said, passing the bottle back, "Now, this dream…" Hanno sighed again, running a hand through his hair, "My mother died when I was young. I have nightmares about it sometimes," Kristoff nodded, putting a hand on his shoulder, "A few nights ago, I was having that dream again, when…suddenly it changed.

"I was at the worst part of the nightmare, I think, when this woman entered the dream. I…I can't remember many details; dreams are like that. I can remember…her eyes, they were this _beautiful_ blue color. _She_ was beautiful, the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," Hanno laughed, "For a moment, I thought she was a goddess, the Maiden herself come to me in a dream, but…I don't even know what happened, but the dream changed again. It wasn't _my_ dream though. It was cold, and I think there was some other girl…I think she was frozen. And she blamed this lovely woman. All I knew was that this woman was _real_, so I…I reassured her, I guess. I told her that the girl wasn't real," He took another sip of absinthe, "But _I was._ We just sort of…held each other. Before I woke up, I thought I heard something…_Arendelle_.

"I searched for a caravan, and I found you. I need to go there, Kristoff."

Kristoff took the flask and drained the last of its contents, "Why?"

Hanno let out a breath, taking back the flask, "It was her eyes. They were breathtakingly blue, but they were so _lonely._ In that instant alone, she seemed almost the very likeness of the Lorn Mother. She's like me, alone," He shook his head with a mirthless laugh, "You probably think I'm an idiot, chasing after something I saw in a dream."

Kristoff smiled, "No I don't. It's kind of hard to believe, but…if what you saw was real, then how can you not help her?" Hanno gave him a confused look, and he shrugged, "You've never even met this girl, but you're willing to search for her because she's like you. You're obviously a very kind man."

The Carthaginian ran a hand through his hair, smiling sheepishly, "You think so?"

"I do," Kristoff said, And hey," He said encouragingly, placing a hand on the other man's shoulder, "You're never really alone."

Hanno's smile seemed somewhat sad, but he nodded, "Thank you, Kristoff. That means a lot," He turned back to the fire, gazing into the red depths, "Does this…make us friends?"

Kristoff chuckled, "I think so. My wife would be so proud of me. I used to be something of a misanthrope."

"Misanthrope?" The fire-tender asked, an expression of amusement on his face.

"Anna says it means I hated people."

"I know what it means, I just couldn't ever conceive of it applying to _you._"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Hanno laughed, "Kristoff, you took me on, a complete and perfect stranger, and let me come with you, even when you had no obligation or reason to do it. Those don't speak to me like the actions of a _misanthrope_," He smiled, "You don't give yourself enough credit."

Kristoff snorted, "Neither of us do. A pair of fools we are."

Hanno raised his flask, "I'd drink to that if there were anything left in this."

"I don't think we have any of that stuff in our stocks."

"Don't worry," The Carthaginian gestured to where he'd left his bags by the hearth, "I've got more."

Kristoff frowned as he noted Hanno's bedroll already unfurled beside the fire, "Not gonna sleep with the rest of us?"

Hanno grinned, "I thought you were supposed to buy me a drink before asking that," At Kristoff's embarrassed expression, he laughed, "I'm just foolin'. No, I'd be more comfortable sleeping near the fire. I can tend it if it gets too low."

"You don't have to do that, you know," Kristoff said, walking around to look him in the eye, "You're already doing a great job. I don't think I've ever felt the lodge this warm!"

Hanno seemed to swell with pride, "Thank you!" He cast his eyes back to the flames, "But I'm going to do a good job. You made a gamble on me, and I'm going to fulfill that. Besides," He looked up, "The heat never bothered me."

Kristoff had to smile at that, the words echoing in his head as he recalled someone else who'd said something very similar, "I'm going to grab some dinner. You coming?"

Hanno nodded, "I'll be with you in a minute."

Kristoff nodded and walked back toward the quartermaster's corner. Hanno turned back to the hearth, feeling the fluttering warmth of the flames as easily as his own heartbeat. As he stood and turned to follow Kristoff, one thought welled up from within him, from the tiny voice that never failed to rebuke him:

_If the heat never bothers you, why did you run away?_

* * *

**New chapter! Yay! I hope you enjoyed it.**

**Sorry it took me so long, but I put a lot of thought into most of what I write, and I like accuracy. Sometimes it takes a lot of research to get things right. (I had to search up protocol for ambassadors, as well as the different levels of diplomats and who they report to for Mago.) **

**This chapter isn't as emotionally charged as the last one by necessity. It would be nearly impossible to hold up that kind of emotional stakes for the entire story without both reader and author fatigue. I'll also be expanding on the history and customs of Carthage in the coming chapters—I suppose I have quite a bit to explain.**

**Now some of you might be wondering why Olaf and Sven haven't shown up in person yet: I fully intend for them to, but it will take a little bit to flesh out their characters fully in my head. They're both rather unique in the way they work, so I need to be sure I'm staying true to their character when I write them.**

**Finally, before we're done here, I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed the first chapter of this story. It means a lot to me, and I always appreciate your input. I hope you'll continue giving me your feedback in future chapters.**

**Until next time!**

**Your friendly neighborhood Cortega.**


	3. Songbirds

**Chapter Three: Songbirds**

Mago Renata Barca swept a critical eye over the chambers he'd been provided and found nothing lacking. The Queen of Arendelle certainly knew how to treat a guest. He wasn't sure what he'd expected when he'd come here after hearing the stories of the Snow Queen, but he liked what he'd found. She was well-suited to ruling, intelligent and charismatic. Maybe his cousins could learn a thing or two from her.

He sunk down onto the couch, a small fire already crackling in the hearth before him to light the room with a warm glow. It reminded him of countless nights reading heroic tales to his little cousin in front of the fireplace, his uncle, Emperor Hiram, smiling as he went over new policies for the empire or embellishing the stories' more fantastical elements. Mago closed his eyes and leaned back. He could still see his uncle's face as he jumped up energetically, abandoning his work as he acted out some tale of Hannibal the Conqueror—complete with sound effects that were, in hindsight, rather comically exaggerated. Hiram had been so warm a man, it seemed as though the world had entered a new winter when he'd passed into the embrace of the Lorn Mother.

But there he went, reminiscing again.

Mago stayed in the sitting room, intending to read over some reports from the rest of the Carthaginian diplomats scattered across Europe when a voice gave him pause. Melara had already retired for the evening, so it could only be…

"Father."

Mago turned to regard his daughter. She was already in her sleeping gown, but something in her bearing told him she wasn't quite ready to go to bed, "What is it, Allaria?"

She fidgeted for a moment, not meeting his eyes, "Why did you come to Arendelle?"

_Oh._ He pursed his lips; so she knew something was up, "I'm the General Ambassador of Carthage, it's my duty to—"

"Even if you shook me out of a drunken stupor after drinking Uncle Uri's special stuff, father, that line wouldn't fool me."

_Uncle Uri._ He sighed. She still remembered him, even after all this time, "It always leads back to him, doesn't it?"

He felt Tanit's hand on his shoulder and looked up at her, her eyes full with concern, "Father?"

"This is about your uncle, child."

She regarded him warily and lowered herself onto the couch beside him, "I'm listening."

Well, at least he had that. He closed his eyes and spoke quietly, "You already know the situation with your uncle," She nodded, "We've had our best spies trying to track him for years. Every so often he'll appear out of nowhere, reveal himself, and then vanish just as quickly."

"Why reveal himself at all, then?" She was a sharp one, his daughter, much like the queen she idolized.

Mago snorted, "You know your uncle. He usually does it in the capacity of helping people," He stilled suddenly, remembering how it had all started, "At least _now_."

Tanit gave him a quizzical look, and he sighed, reaching into the pocket of his jacket to retrieve a worn piece of thick, folded paper. He unfurled the paper to reveal an expansive map of the Old World, simple in its design, obviously meant for utility rather than decoration. A series of red triangles were scattered across the plane, congregating in some areas, connected by solid red lines, some marked with little flags, while others were denoted by certain insignia.

She frowned at a cluster of points in the waters around the south Asian subcontinent, "What are these?"

Mago chuckled, "Those are all the sightings of your uncle within a four month period almost three and a half years ago."

"They're all at sea…" Mago smiled as she froze, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place, "The _C.N.S. Caelondia. _And the _Anticlea._"

Mago ruffled her hair, "You've got it, Allaria."

"What did he do, father?"

Mago smoothed out the map before splaying a hand out over the Indian Ocean, "The marks here designate a four-month-long string of piracy and raiding of British holdings and vessels by a Carthaginian-built ship flying a banner with the emblem of a _songbird_."

Tanit grinned, dark eyes flashing with humor, "_That's_ the Uncle Uri I remember."

He held his daughter close as he continued his tale, "During this time, a British first rate ship-of-the-line, the _HMS Grand Britannia_, one of the most powerful ships in those waters, vanished from the port of Madras without even a sound. Captain Edwin Caro sailed into the port at Utica with a ship that bore a remarkable, yet completely coincidental resemblance (Tanit scoffed here)—later dubbed the _C.N.S. Anticlea—_and offered his services on behalf of the Songbird_._"

"What is it with our culture and our inability to just use peoples' names? Are we so incapable of remembering anyone's name that we need to give _everyone_ an epithet?" Tanit shook her head.

He squeezed her shoulder, "It's something of a relic left over from the time of our war with the Romans. We ascribe to people names befitting their deeds," His daughter gave him a skeptical look, "You'll understand when you're older and get your own cool name."

"What's yours?"

Smirking proudly, Mago grinned, "They call me the Owl."

"_More_ bird motifs? Storms of the Sailor—"

"Allaria," He said warningly, "We do not invoke the Sailor so casually."

She grumbled out a very insincere apology, "So then what happened?"

Mago brushed speck of dust off the map, "A month after the arrival of the _Anticlea_, the _C.N.S. Caelondia_, which had been reported as derelict in duty some months past, made port at Hippo Regius bearing letters of marque signed and sealed by your uncle, approving its absence _in absentia_."

"Try saying that five times fast," Tanit joked, "Then…if the _Caelondia_ returned, where did Uncle Uri go?"

He pointed to a line that stretched from the Indian Ocean all the way to the landmass labeled _Nova Hollandia_, then up toward the Orient, "After the last of those attacks, he falls off the map again for a full two months. Next thing we know, he pops up in the Far East overthrowing their bloody _government!_"

"He did what now?"

Mago froze, his mouth hanging open as he stared blankly ahead, "I said that out loud, didn't I?"

Tanit nodded, "Kind of, yeah."

Sighing, the Ambassador General worried at one corner of the map with his fingertips, "In the east, it's perfectly acceptable for a nobleman to cut down a commoner for even the slightest provocation."

His daughter frowned, swelling with anger, "That's outrageous!"

"And I'm sure they think the same of our customs. Do not judge someone too harshly until you've seen the world from where he stands."

"Or she."

He nodded, "Or she."

Tanit smiled, then looked down at the map, "What does this have to do with Uncle Uri."

"Your uncle has always been a compassionate soul, especially when it comes to defending the weak. He saw this custom of their in action and…took issue with it."

She winced in sympathy, "Those poor bastards."

"Language," Mago reprimanded casually, "It seems that such a thing rarely happened in their country. But your uncle didn't really do anything extraordinary, like bring down a castle…"

"That's good—"

"Merely ignited a powder keg that had been primed for _years_," He turned to look at her, somewhat incredulous, "Do you have any idea just how _many_ peasant revolts they have?! It's a wonder their palaces have stood this long," He shook his head, "Anyway, what ended up happening was that the peasants, aided by a number of disgruntled, lower-class swordsmen, managed to seize control of the provincial government, and forced the _daimyo_ to recreate the government so that such things wouldn't happen anymore."

"I take it Uncle Uri had a hand in that."

A look of intense concentration came over Mago's face, as though he was trying to remember something he'd forgotten long ago. Then he shook his head, "It's possible, but I doubt it. He's always been a proponent of self-determination. It's part of why he left…"

Tanit growled in frustration, and for a brief moment, Mago saw a flash of her uncle in her, "Damn Uncle Hasdrubal and Aunt Elissa. This never should have happened."

He sighed and looked at her, a hint of sadness in his gaze, "You haven't referred to the twins by their second names since your uncle left."

She huffed, her expression still stormy, "I'll refer to them as family when they start acting like a family. All of this—and for what?! So that one of them can sit a pretty chair and call themselves by a fancy title?" She continued in this vein for a few minutes, railing against her less-beloved uncle and aunt until she sagged with exhaustion, "What the use? He's gone, and the only way he's coming back is if they settle their differences."

Mago wrapped an arm around her, "Maybe sooner than you think, Allaria," At her wide, hopeful eyes, he elaborated, "That uprising in the East was a bit more than two years ago. Immediately after, he chartered a fast-moving ship even further east."

"The Americas."

"Glad to see your uncle's efforts haven't been wasted," She startled, her eyes wide with shock this time, and he smiled, "Who do you think gave him the idea of forwarding you all his cartographical research?"

She smiled and sidled closer to him, "Of course it would be you, always going on about my _education_," At her father's grin, she shrugged, "But what does any of this have to do with why we're here?"

"I'm getting to that!" Mago insisted, returning to the map, "After he landed on the west coast of the Americas—and sending back some fairly impressive maps—he set out east, across the breadth of the continent," He placed his finger on a point in the middle of the continent, "This is the next sighting of him. Notice the dates."

Leaning forward, Tanit gazed at the point quizzically and asked, "You want to tell me how Uncle Uri managed to go from Spanish territory to French Louisiana in under _three months?_"

He sighed, shaking his head, "He must have had one hell of a good horse."

"There's a _mountain range_ in middle of the continent!"

"Look, when we finally catch him, we'll ask him, alright?"

"…fine," Tanit poured over the map, "What then?"

Mago leaned back and put an arm around her, "Well, there's a smattering of sightings all across French Louisiana, but it's clear that he had a bearing in mind; follow the trend line and you can tell he's heading for—"

"New York," She looked at him, "I _did_ actually study those maps, father."

A chuckle escaped him, "Glad to hear it. And you're right, he was heading for New York…but something stopped him," His daughter peered more closely at the map, and he elaborated, "He was making remarkable time for the city, but look here," He indicated sightings in both Philadelphia and New York, "There's a two month gap in between the two."

Tanit leaned in closer, then grinned in triumph at a point just north of the city, "There! The mainland north of the city! It…it's marked with something…"

"A pair of crossed swords," Mago informed her. She gave him a curious look, and he smirked, "_That_, my daughter, is the first time that we actually caught up with him."

"_Who_ caught up with—" She stopped as she came to a sudden realization. Who _else_ would be tasked with tracking a man like her uncle, "Rangers."

He smiled proudly, "Very good. Yes, a contingent of Carthaginian rangers who had been attached to our local ambassador tracked your uncle down to a village in the Mohawk Valley. Seems the people there took a shine to him."

"He _is_ rather charismatic, isn't he?" Tanit found herself smiling, imagining her uncle on his travels, "I take it the rangers found him?"

"It would be more accurate to say that _he_ found _them_."

"Ouch."

"Yeah. He decimated a six-man team without firing a single shot. Reports say he used only his cutlass—you know, the one with the serrated back edge?—alongside this strange spearhead-sword we think he picked up in the Far East, and a hand-axe," Tanit raised an eyebrow, "Your uncle is a sailor, remember? Axes are a common enough weapon aboard most naval vessels. We think this one was from the locals."

"Huh, I was wondering why they changed the words to _The Ballad of the Songbird_."

"The line about the blade and the axe? Yeah."

"He didn't…" His daughter seemed timid now, "He didn't _kill_ any of them, did he?"

Mago shook his head emphatically, "Of course not, just beat them badly enough that they couldn't follow him for several days. By the time them tracked him to New York, he was already gone."

"Gone where?"

Now the fifth prince of Carthage smiled dangerously, "Across the Atlantic."

Tanit froze in stunned silence, a look of thunderstruck realization etched on her face. Looks like she'd put the pieces together, "He's _here?!_"

"Maybe," Mago pointed to the map, where a line was traced from New York all the way to Lisbon, "He chartered another ship and landed in Portugal almost a year ago. Since then we've had much better luck tracking him—we have far more rangers in Europe than in America, and we've nearly caught him a few times."

"But of course," His daughter finished his though for him, "He always manages to find a way out," At her father's nod she sighed, "That's just like Uncle Uri."

He grinned, his finger tracing the lines on the map, "He's been actively trying to throw us off his tracks since then, but it's only partially effective. It's not something he was ever trained for. The information on this map is almost a month old, but I had a few people analyze his movements, and most of them agree that he'll be passing close to this kingdom around this time."

"So you're not just here to talk with the Queen," His daughter concluded, "You're looking for him." Mago nodded, smiling, then yelped in surprise as his daughter threw herself into his arms, pressing a kiss to his cheek, "I love you, father!"

"You really miss him a lot, don't you?" He felt his daughter nod from somewhere against his shoulder, "He's my family too, right? I want him back as much as you do."

Tanit released him settling back on the couch, then frowned, "Wait."

"Yes?"

"If Uncle Uri hasn't been home in years, how has he been _funding_ himself?"

Scratching his beard, Mago smiled sheepishly, "_Officially speaking_, your uncle is on an indefinitely leave of absence from the navy in order to expand our cartographical understanding of the world's coastlines."

Tanit narrowed her eyes, thinking, "So you're saying that even though my uncle hasn't been home in _years_, any time he wants he can just—"

"Walk into a bank in any major city and withdraw money from the Carthaginian holdings there? Pretty much, yeah."

She pursed her lips, "That seems like cheating, somehow."

"Well, it isn't like this is easy for him either. It pained him as much to leave as it did us to see him go. You remember the day he left?"

"Like it was yesterday," Tanit said quietly, "He promised he'd come back."

"Did you know he was crying into my shoulder about five minutes before he said goodbye to you?"

Shocked eyes turned to him, "Uncle Uri did?"

Mago smiled, "He knew you were going to cry. He wanted to put up a strong front for you, be the man he always was around you."

Blinking rapidly, Tanit realized her eyes were watering, "He didn't…I never asked…" She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes, "I never wanted that! I just…"

The fifth prince of Carthage sighed, wrapping his arms around his daughter and holding her close, "I know, child. I was against it, but he was already wetting my tunic before I could say so. I…I don't think I'd ever seen him so much as tear up since we were boys. He was always in control of his emotions."

Tanit was silent for a long moment before she spoke, "But he was always honest with himself about them, right?"

Her father nodded, "Your uncle always said that the worst lies we tell are those we tell ourselves."

She sniffed, straightening and looking him in the eye, "Why?"

"Because," He sighed, "If we lie to ourselves long enough, we begin to believe it."

After a long while of silence, Tanit smiled, hugging him close, "That sounds like Uncle Uri's wisdom alright."

He smiled, stroking her hair as they sat there just a few moments longer, "Time for bed, I think, Allaria."

His daughter nodded, extricating herself from his embrace and retreating to the door, "Thank you, father…for everything."

He looked back down at the map as she left, the door closing behind her. It always came back to him, didn't it? His little cousin, who had inherited Emperor Hiram's warmth in so many ways. The little boy whose mind he'd filled with books and learning and stories of great men and their deeds. The confident youth who'd set off across the Mediterranean with cannon and steel. The young man who'd cried into his shoulder, leaving his homeland because of the foolishness of two people who were supposed to always have each other's backs.

_That's what family does._

He stood from the couch, crossing the short distance to the fire, feeling the heat wash over him. He glowered into the flames, emotions warring in his mind. He wanted to find the twins and beat them black and blue, maybe knock out a few teeth, just do _something_ until they came to their senses. And yet…all at once he also wanted to drag them both into his arms and never let go. He wanted his family back.

"I know you gave order for him to be brought back, Salicar," He said, as if the Emperor could actually hear him, "But I won't do it. If I'm right, if I _do_ find him…I'll ask him the one question no one bothered to ask four years ago.

"I'll ask him what it is that _he_ wants," Knowing that he wasn't doing any more work that night, Mago turned away heading for his room, "And I'll support him no matter what he chooses.

"Because _that's_ what family does."

0000000000

Well, it was better than another nightmare, she supposed. Elsa pressed on ahead through the snow, wind howling in her ear as she came to crystalline structure that bridged the divide between herself and her creation.

She had always loved her ice palace, even if she only rarely had the chance to visit it. The snowman she'd created to guard it, Marshmallow, seemed comfortable there, even if he did miss his "mama". She tried to visit along with Anna when she could, but her duties often prevented her from accompanying her sister. Why she'd be dreaming about _this_ place in particular, though, was beyond her.

Then she heard the humming.

There was no way she should have been able to hear it at this distance, especially over the roar of the mountain gales. No way should she have been able to make out that mournful tune, nor the melodious voice that hummed it. No way should that man's voice have been able to impart that same reassuring feeling through its soft sadness as it floated out through the doors of her palace.

_Her_ palace. She felt a brief surge of possessiveness as she crossed the ice bridge, somewhere between anger and jealousy, at the nerve of someone setting foot in her palace, but it ebbed away at the softened twang of a stringed instrument and a particularly somber vocalization. Feeling a familiar sense of silliness and repetition, she raised a hand tentatively and knocked twice. The humming died away, as though out of confusion, and she drew back a bit from the doors, slightly embarrassed at her interruption.

Then the voice called out, "Come in," As casually as if he'd been drinking tea in the parlor when an unexpected guest had dropped by.

She pushed open the doors and froze at the sight before her. It was her palace, alright. Half of it, anyway. The ice spread outward from the door in that same hexagonal structure she remembered weaving into being three years past, circling around the great snowflake pattern that dominated the floor. Or half of it. On the other side of the fractioned snowflake, a new symbol grew from the faded ice, a mosaic of tiny glass beads set in sandstone.

The first thing she noticed was the most recognizable as well: a wing. An angel? Stepping forward, she turned her head. No…a bird, one wing spread wide—she assumed the other would be, too, if her snowflake wasn't in the way. It was feathered black, with white plumage prominent on its body, though it appeared to fade into a sort of golden-red color where it met the boundary of her snowflake. Then she noticed another curious thing, up beside the bird's head, where it turned toward its black-feathered side: a note. A _musical_ note.

_A songbird._

The rest of the sandstone hall was as simple as her own icy one. Great Hellenistic columns held up an angled ceiling, a large circular stained-glass window providing a tinted view of the full moon, casting an oddly-shaped shadow on the floor.

…no, not just any shape. A very _human_ shape.

"So you're here," His voice drifted down from the window, his form resting in the curve of the windowsill, high off the ground.

"So are you," She replied evenly, "Why is this happening?"

The Stranger slipped down from the window, dropping to the ground with a quiet thud, "I was kind of hoping you knew," He stepped into the light, smiling pleasantly, "Guess this is new to both of us."

Elsa chanced a hesitant smile. It couldn't hurt, right? "I guess so." The Stranger hummed to himself, idly plucking a string on the instrument in his hand, and Elsa tilted her head to get a better look at it, "That's a beautiful mandola. You play it very well."

He ducked his head, smile turning sheepish, "Not nearly well enough, my lady."

Her lips twitched as she fought the urge to smile more earnestly. He was just like every other musician she'd ever seen praised, "Aren't you going to introduce yourself?" He gave her an odd look and she elaborated, "I can't very well keep calling you _the Stranger_ in my head, now can I?" At this, the Stranger blinked in sudden realization and bit his lip, cheeks coloring slightly as he averted his eyes.

"R-right, sorry about that," He took her hand and bowed, very formally pressing his lips against it, her own cheeks warming at the gesture. He tilted his head up, mouth curling into an honest smile, "I am Hanno of Carthage. May I have the honor of knowing your name?"

It took her a startled moment to realize what he'd asked before she could stammer out a reply, "E-Elsa," She cleared her throat and composed herself, "Elsa of Arendelle."

Hanno straightened, "A good name. It means _noble_, right?"

"That's one interpretation," She agreed, "The other one is—"

"_God's oath,_" At her slightly put-out expression, he grimaced, "Sorry. I have a bad habit of blurting things out."

She shook her head, "It's fine. You said your name is Hanno, right? Named for Hanno the Navigator?"

He nodded, smile returning to his face, "You know your history!"

She felt her own lips twitch in return, "I only learned a little Punic when I was younger, but I think I know—no, don't tell me!" She held up a finger as Hanno opened his mouth, the other running through her hair as she struggled to recall the studying she'd done years ago, "Hanno…it means _gentle_, right? _Merciful._"

Hanno's smile widened, and his fingers strummed his mandola again, "_Very_ good. It's the same word that Hannibal comes from," He slapped his palm against the strings of his instrument, bringing their vibration to a halt, "Since we've proven that we know the mean behind one another's names now, I suppose we should talk?"

Elsa arched one pale eyebrow, smiling bemusedly, "We're experiencing a shared dream—a quite possibly unique and unheard-of phenomenon—and your first idea is to _talk?_"

"_Elsa,_" He drawled, "We're in a dreamscape constructed from our interwoven memories—at least I assume that's what they are—and Mother only knows what could happen. However, since it seems this is not just a onetime thing…yes, I'd like to talk. I'd like to get to know you."

Elsa turned about, examining their surroundings, noting with some interest the figure in the stained-glass window, "Yes, I'd like that too," She admitted, "I guess I'll ask first: where are we?"

"In a dream."

She spun back around, gracing him with a withering glance, "I kind of got that. I mean where are we on your side?"

Hanno chuckled, "You're cute when you're annoyed," He noted. Elsa stiffened as blood rushed to her cheeks and he walked around her, laying one hand against the stone walls, "This is the villa my brother had built for me, on the isle of Cossyra. The Italians know it as _Pantelleria,_" He turned back to her, "So, where are we on _your_ side?"

Elsa, still recovering from the 'cute' comment, had to stop for a moment to process the question, "It's my ice palace on the North Mountain in Arendelle."

He let out a low whistle, running a hand across one of the cold columns at the corner of the room, "_Beautiful_ form. The fractal structures are remarkable! It reminds me of _il Duomo._"

Elsa blinked in surprise, "You've been to Florence?"

Hanno gave her an intrigued sidelong look, "You know of it?"

She let out an excited breath, "Know it?! I've read every book in the library about it!" Her elation dimmed a bit as she clasped her hands at her waist, wringing them with some nervousness, "When I was younger I…I couldn't go out much at all, and I barely saw even my own sister. Books were the closest things I had to friends in those days."

He gazed at her for a long moment, an inscrutable expression on his face. After a moment, he averted his eyes, looking up to where the pyramidal spire of her palace met the curved dome of his villa, "I know a bit about loneliness, too. I managed to find friends who care about me despite my…oddities. Sometimes that's all it takes. Sometime it takes more…" Elsa had to bite her lip to stop herself from blurting out some question about his past. He shook his head as though to clear it, "A story for another time."

Elsa wanted to know more, but kept her peace. She had a feeling this would not be the last time they met. Instead, she cast her eyes upward, to the stained-glass window above the villa doors. It was a woman—that much was certain—with long dark hair that flowed down around her like a cloak, and a dress of a deep, earthly green. Her arms were spread wide, as though ready to embrace her child, and thin trails from the corners of her dark eyes, half-lidded in an expression of profound longing, marked the tracks of her tears.

"That woman," She murmured after a moment, "Who is she?"

Hanno followed her gaze, his eyes softening at the sight of the woman in the window, "She is Tanit, the Lorn Mother."

"She's crying." It was as much a question as an observation.

"It is the Lorn Mother who gave us life; we are all of us her children. Yet she is parted from us—we live here on earth, she above, beyond. She weeps for the children she cannot hold in life."

Elsa gave him a curious look, "In life?"

He nodded, sighing wistfully, "It is from her that we are all born, and in the end, it to her that we return at last."

There wasn't much she could say to that, so she sunk to the ground, legs curling under her, dress pooling around her, to contemplate his words. He sat down wordlessly beside her, hands running along the length of his mandola's strings. As he strummed idly at it, a pattern emerged in the notes, a tune she'd heard once before.

"That song you were singing earlier," She said suddenly, looking at him, "It's about the Lorn Mother, isn't it?"

Hanno favored her with a soft smile, "You're very intelligent, you know that?"

She flushed and dropped her gaze, fingers trailing across the icy floor beneath her, "Do you think you could sing it again?"

He seemed surprised for a moment, then his smile returned, a little brighter than before, "I'd love to."

He strummed a resonant chord, voice filling the air with that comforting, mournful song. The lonely melody flowed over her like a veil, and she felt herself slipping away into a deeper sleep, away from the dreams. Elsa's eyes drifted closed as the last words of Hanno's song echoed in her mind.

_Mother, I'm here._

0000000000

It was still dark when she awoke, eyes fluttering open as they adjusted to the blackness. The pale light of the moon glinted off the hands of her wall clock told her it would be a few hours until dawn. Elsa sat up, tugging absently at the neckline of her silk shift as she remembered the dream. Try as she might, she still couldn't recall his face, only his voice, that mournful song, and a name.

"Hanno," She murmured after a moment, trying out the name like a new chocolate. He was…an interesting man, to say the least.

A pale shape at the corner of her vision brought her attention to Mago Renata Barca's gift, where moonlight shone off its smooth, polished surface, its curved arms bound in an elegant pattern of red and white. Another interesting thing that had entered her life recently.

It wasn't that it was from Carthage—however much Prince Mago may have disagreed that anything from the Eternal City could be uninteresting, the fact remained that they had a veritable warehouse of Carthaginian gifts from over the years. Glasswork, pottery, tapestries, the list went on and on. The Carthaginians certainly loved their art.

It wasn't the first weapon she'd been gifted either. While she may have been a peaceful person, Elsa could still admire that there was a certain beauty in the recurve bow that the Fifth Prince of Carthage had given her. But she'd been presented with enough gaudy daggers and gilded swords to fill a rather useless armory.

No, what intrigued her most about the gift was its purported origin. She thought back to Mago's last words before he'd departed for the evening to settle in to the chambers she'd provided him.

_You're a rare woman, for the royal bowyer to be commissioned for _this_ weapon. Few outside of the Eternal City have ever even _seen_ a dragonbone bow._

Dragons! She'd heard the stories, hadn't she? Great scaly beasts ten stories tall, with wings like sails and claws like swords. And Mago said this bow was crafted from their _bones?!_ Anna had asked a hundred questions, but Mago had just smiled enigmatically and departed, saying "all in good time."

He certainly had a flair for the dramatic.

A loud tick pushed all thoughts of gifts and dragons and Mago Renata Barca out of her head, and she looked to the wall clock and groaned softly. She had to be up early in the morning for a commerce meeting. She settled back among her sheets and lay on her side, breathing already slowing. It wasn't until her eyes began to close that she realized she was humming that song. Hanno's song.

Elsa smiled and drew the blankets around her. As she drifted off, she wondered when she would meet Hanno of Carthage again.

**Oh Mother, I am so sorry for being late with this, you guys. I meant to have this chapter out two weeks ago, but events conspired to prevent me from completing it until now. I can't guarantee that it won't happen again, but I'll do my best to make sure it doesn't.**

**Now that I've done my apologizing and groveling, here are some notes explaning the background and reasons for some material in this chapter.**

**On the Lorn Mother and the Carthaginian religion:**** being that Carthage was a contemporary of the Greeks and the Romans, I thought it would be almost criminal if I deprived them of the same sort of Hellenistic pantheon. I'll be expanding more on them as the story progresses, and more on the rest of the pantheon (of which only three have been mentioned so far: the Maiden, the Sailor, and the Lorn Mother.) The pantheon as a whole draws elements and inspiration from a number of sources, among them classical Greek Mythology, the Seven from A Song of Ice and Fire, and the Pantheon from Bastion.**

**On Carthaginian epithets:**** It was common in the days of Rome and Carthage for a prominent person to be given an **_**agnomen**_**, a name which was ascribed to them for their deeds. Scipio Africanus, who defeated Hannibal at the Battle of Zama (in historical canon, not this altered one), gained the name Africanus because his greatest deeds took place in Africa. Even referring to Elsa as **_**the Snow Queen**_** is another form of agnomen.**

**On Mago's maps:**** If you've figured out who Uncle Uri is, congratulations! If you're still wondering, then…all in good time. **_**C.N.S.**_** is a military designation that stands for **_**Carthaginian Naval Ship**_**, similar to **_**U.S.S. **_**or **_**H.M.S.**_** The names of the ships, **_**Caelondia**_** and **_**Anticlea**_**, come from Bastion and the Odyssey respectively. The term **_**Nova Hollandia**_** was widely used to refer to Australia from 1644 up until the late 1800's. And there actually was a societal policy—called **_**kiri-sute gomen**_**—in feudal Japan where samurai had the right to cut down any lower-ranking person whom they perceived to be compromising their honor. (There were legal complications, witnesses had to be presented and such, but it was a very real right.)**

**On names and their meanings:**** The two meanings of Elsa's name might confuse readers not familiar with linguistics. The name **_**Elsa**_** could be of either Teutonic (Germanic) or Levantine (Hebrew) origin. In the first case, it means "noble", and in the second it means "oath of God". The name **_**Hanno**_** is of Levantine (Hebrew) origin as well. It comes from the same root as the name **_**Hannah**_**, and Hannibal , which means "the grace of Ba'al" (Ba'al being a word for Lord or God.)**

**That was a lot of info. I'll see about cutting back next chapter. I didn't want to make this chapter as much of an infodump as it turned out to be, but it was necessary in order for later chapters to make sense. I am sorry about it, but believe me, I don't write anything that isn't important later on.**

**Once again I thank you for your kind reviews. Keep at them, they help me stay motivated to write.**

**Until next time,**

**Cortega.**


	4. Cold Winds are Rising

**Chapter Four: Cold Winds are Rising**

There was no mistaking it. Kristoff might not have been as well-read as Elsa—and it had been a little embarrassing the first time he'd asked her to teach him his letters—but he knew people, and he knew that he wasn't imagining what he saw.

Hanno was _afraid._

That wasn't surprising. Everyone had their fears, big and small. Kristoff wasn't surprised or shocked or dismissive, he was just baffled, because everything he saw pointed to one inarguable fact: Hanno was afraid of the _glacier._ Kristoff wasn't one to scoff at the fears of others either, but it just seemed…kind of laughable for a grown man to fear a giant, immobile river of ice.

But the more Kristoff watched, the more certain he was. There was that little twitch whenever someone crossed from the rocky mountain path onto the thick ice of the glacier, the way he'd jerked back when he got too close to the ice when he first arrived on the slope, the way he kept glancing at it when he thought no one was looking, as if making sure it hadn't crept closer to him.

"Something wrong?" Kristoff asked, startling Hanno out of his thoughts.

Smiling easily, the Carthaginian looked up from the fire he was stoking, "Why would it be?"

Kristoff chuckled as he stripped off his gloves to warm his fingers, sitting down on the stony ground where Hanno had set up his little pavilion, a short few steps from the edge of the glacier: close enough for the harvesters to take their break there without having to trek all the way back to the lodge, but far enough to ease Hanno's nervousness. He had to hand it to the other man, he knew how to keep his composure.

"You've been nervous ever since you came out to the glacier. You could have just stayed in the lodge, you know?"

"And be derelict in my duties? My ancestors would be spinning in their crypts," Hanno laughed, "It's my job to keep you all warm, and I'll be damned if a little trepidation is going to stop me."

Kristoff just nodded and gathered his thoughts for a moment, "So why _are_ you afraid? I know I said earlier to watch out for crevasses, but it's not like one's going to open up under your feet."

The fire-tender sighed, casting a piece of splintered wood into the flames, "Let's just say that bad things have happened every time I've set foot on ice."

Well that was curious. "Bad things?" Kristoff asked, one eyebrow raised, "Like what?"

"Would you believe me if I said that I once brought down lightning on a frozen river?"

"That could have just been a coincidence."

"_Three times?_"

Kristoff blinked, "Point taken. But the sky's clear above us, I'm sure there'll be no acts of god to ruin your day."

"Kristoff, you don't understand. The last time I stepped on ice, I woke up three weeks later in the infirmary next to the crazy old man whose fault it was that I was _on_ the ice," Hanno shuddered, "And that's why I'm _never_ going to Philadelphia ever again."

"That seems like a bit of an exaggeration."

"Unless the Lorn Mother appears before me in all Her grace and glory and says _'Go, my child, to Philadelphia,'_ I am not setting a foot within a fifty mile radius of that city."

Kristoff had to laugh, "That old man must have traumatized you something awful."

Hanno's expression softened, "He's a good man, and a good friend…" He drew his cloak about him and looked up as the temperature seemed to drop, "Storm's coming."

Kristoff followed his gaze skyward, skeptical, "You sure?"

"Wind's picking up, pressure's dropping," Hanno tossed another cut log onto the fire, "I'm a maritime man by nature and trade. I'm sure."

He only got a scrutinizing gaze in return, "You're an interesting guy, you know that?"

"Beg your pardon?"

"You're a sailor, a fire-tender, a traveler, and a musician. You carry books written in four different languages—"

"Greek, Italian, English, and Punic, to be exact."

"—and you keep that weird knife on you all the time."

At this Hanno seemed hurt, "It's a short sword."

"Whatever," Kristoff said, "It looks like you took a spearhead and stuck a hilt on it."

Patting the hilt of his weird knife comfortingly, Hanno chewed at his lip, "Well, you're not _entirely _wrong…" At the other man's chuckle, he looked up, looking somewhat put-out, "What?"

"You pout like Anna does."

"Your wife, right?"

Kristoff smiled, "Yeah, she always pouts like that when her sister tells her she can't do something."

Hanno leaned back, "You must love her a lot, considering how often you talk about her. What's she look like?"

"Red hair, freckles, a bit shorter than…oh forget it, just look," Kristoff reached into his shirt and tugged out the locket that Elsa had given him for his last birthday. It was a plain, circular thing of gold, not too ostentatious, with a small latch with which to open it and reveal the portrait of his wife he'd placed within, "I always tell her it doesn't do her justice," He said, unchaining it from his neck and reaching around the fire.

Ungloved fingers took the golden disk carefully, bringing it close and opening the golden door. Hanno let out a low whistle, "No way."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"That she's _way_ out of your league, my friend."

Kristoff smiled a silly smile, "Don't I know it."

A sly grin crossed Hanno's face, "Her _sister_, you say?"

"Don't even think about it. She's the Queen. She's got enough of a problem with suitors as it is."

The Carthaginian reached for his mandolin where it lay beside him, wrapped in a thick wool blanket to protect it from the elements. He undid the wrapping, still smiling, "She must be an uncommon woman."

"That she is."

"So what's she like?"

"Why are you so interested?"

The fire tender looked up at him, "Kristoff, I may not be from here, but even across the Atlantic I hear tales. Tales of the Snow Queen of Arendelle, a woman of great beauty, with hair like white-gold. They say ice runs in her veins like blood, that she freezes men's hearts with a kiss, that she can turn summer into winter with nary a thought," He adjusted a peg on his instrument, laughing dismissively, "Of course, that's all fanciful sailor's tales—we're a race rather prone to exaggeration. I'd like to hear the real story, without all the superstitious nonsense. Who better than you?"

Kristoff let out a sigh, "You're really not gonna let this go, are you?"

Hanno strummed a chord, the fire crackling merrily before him, smiling like all was right in the world, "Well, you're being so close-lipped about it, there must be something worth knowing."

Shaking his head with a laugh, Kristoff thought on it as Hanno hummed along to his strings a tune that reminded him of summer, warm and bright, "She's…she's a good queen. She cares about her people. A lot."

"As all good rulers should," Hanno said, an odd note in his voice as the song shifted for a measure or two, like a stray cloud passing across the sun.

"She was born to rule, she really was. She's scary smart too."

Hanno grinned as he continued strumming, "A woman after my own heart. She'd love the Library at Byrsa."

Kristoff fell silent for a long moment before he asked, "Do you miss it? Carthage?"

He got a sad smile in return, the song turning melancholy and wistful, "There's a part of me that will always long to return to the Eternal City. Carthage has always been home to me, with everything that means: good food, a warm hearth, all that comforts of home and family, but…" He let out a breath, fingers still plucking, "I've learned much on this journey. I've seen much, done much… I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Kristoff nodded, deep in thought as he stood, intending to return to the glacier before Hanno's voice rang out to him.

"You never did tell me," He turned to see Hanno's impish grin, "You never told me if the Queen can freeze someone's heart."

Kristoff smiled a smile that Anna had once called his _mystery smile_ and turned away, "Only the ones she doesn't like."

With that he walked off, leaving Hanno of Carthage to wonder whether or not he was serious.

0000000000

Elsa kneaded her forehead as she left the meeting room. Why she'd decided to see the delegate from Westleton at all was beyond her, but the man's demands had been frankly ludicrous. No tariffs, special considerations, _compensation?!_ It had taken all her willpower not to have the pompous fool thrown out on his ear. Her sister followed her out the door, the day's itinerary crumpled in her clenched fist.

"The _nerve_ of that little man!" She growled.

"Tell me about it," Elsa groaned, "And tell me that that's everything for the day."

A mortified silence was her only answer.

_"Anna."_

"Youhaveameetingwithprincemagoinfifteenminutes!"

Elsa blinked rapidly, trying and failing to decode what she'd just heard, "What?"

Anna took a steadying breath, "Prince Mago has requested a meeting with you. I scheduled him for six, and…"

She looked for the nearest clock, finding it to be a quarter to the appointed hour, "I should never have agreed to hear the Westleton delegate."

"Frankly, I was surprised that you'd even considered it."

Elsa shook her head, white-gold braid swinging about, "It was a terrible lapse in judgment. Promise me you won't let me do something that stupid again?"

Her sister grinned, "Don't you worry, Elsa. I'm here."

She kept walking onward, chattering about the upcoming day of ice-skating later in the week, but the Queen of Arendelle stopped cold, frozen as if by her own powers.

_I'm here._

Those words jarred loose something in her mind, and all at once memories of Hanno of Carthage surged to the forefront of her thoughts, "Anna…"

The princess paused and turned, all at once realizing that her sister had stopped following her several paces ago, "What's wrong?"

"I need to tell you something after my meeting."

Anna raised one eyebrow, "Is it important?"

Elsa tittered uncertainly, "I'm not even sure myself. It might be."

"Do you want to cancel your meeting? Barca will wait, I'm sure."

"No," She shook her head, "I'll see what he wants and tell you after. It's just…you might think I'm crazy."

Anna giggled behind her hand, as she turned to lead the Queen to the meeting, "Elsa, I don't think there's anything you could do that would shock me _that_ much."

As she moved to follow along, Elsa muttered under her breath, "I _really_ hope so."

She found herself humming that sad song again as they walked, trying to work out how best to tell Anna that she was speaking in her dreams with someone she had never met—yet was absolutely certain that he was not a figment of her imagination—without sounding like a lunatic. Each wording sounded crazier than the last, and try as she might she couldn't find a way to say it that didn't make her sister call for the royal physician.

They arrived at yet another meeting room, where Mago Renata Barca was already waiting, inspecting a painting of her parents, turning as she entered the room, his mantle swishing about his feet. One of his guards stood a respectful distance away, a robe of dark brown linen wrapped around his frame.

"Your Grace," The ambassador greeted, inclining his head.

"Prince Mago. Shall we get down to business?"

"In a moment," He agreed, turning back to the painting, "Your mother and father?"

"Yes," She answered.

Mago grunted in acknowledgement, studying the painting, "You have your mother's look," Abruptly he turned, moving to sit in a chair, his cloak billowing behind him, "Well then, we should proceed. You seem eager to finish your work for the day, and I cannot blame you."

Elsa seated herself across from him as Anna took her place beside her, "Forgive me, Prince Mago, but it's been a long day."

"I understand, Your Grace. This business shouldn't take much time at all. It's merely a proposal, to be left for you to consider."

"Let's hear it then."

Mago opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, "Forgive me, Your Grace, but I feel that this information, at this moment, should be told only to you."

Elsa gave Anna a sidelong glance, "Anything you can tell me you can tell my sister. She is my heir, after all."

The Carthaginian pursed his lips, "Ordinarily I would agree, however, this information is rather…sensitive. By its very nature, it could cause chaos across the continent. I will not ask you not to tell Princess Anna, but I would prefer to tell it to you alone and have you choose whether or not to tell her."

The Queen was rather tired of this and started to reply before her sister cut her off, "It's alright, Elsa. If it's that important, I know you'll tell me later. I should see to the arrangements for dinner. Mago, you will be joining us, won't you?"

The ambassador bowed his head, "Of course, Your Highness."

"Anna," She corrected.

"Princess Anna."

_"Anna."_

Mago let out something close to a chuckle before giving in, "Of course, Anna," He turned in his chair to his guard, "Redwine, go to my rooms and notify my wife and daughter."

"Of course, my lord."

Elsa frowned at that. _Redwine._ Not a Carthaginian name for certain. She looked closely at the man. Yes, there it was; he may have been tanned by years in the Mediterranean, but his features were distinctly English. How had an Englishman come to serve a Prince of Carthage, she wondered. She chanced a glance at Anna, who was eying Redwine with some curiosity as she rose.

"I'd like to go too, to invite Tanit personally."

Elsa nodded, "Leave us then, both of you," The two departed, and she put the matter of the Englishman out of her mind, "Now, what's this about, Prince Mago?"

Mago folded his hands before him on the table, "I didn't want to say this to anyone but you, Queen Elsa. That's why I asked you to send Anna out, and why I dismissed Ranger Redwine," He took a steadying breath, "The Emperor requests your permission to expand operations out of Conclave Island."

Those words brought Elsa up short. Conclave Island was the crescent of land in Arendelle water that her father had leased to Carthage before her birth, in exchange for some very favorable trade terms. The Carthaginians had always used it as a naval base, but it had never held more than a few corvettes, maybe even a frigate or two.

There was only one reason that Mago Renata Barca would be asking her to permit them to expand their operations.

"Why?"

It was a rhetorical question, and they both knew it. She knew exactly why. The only remaining question was _who._

Mago took a deep breath, "Carthage is on the verge of war with the Kingdom of Great Britain."

0000000000

Anna hummed to herself as she strode confidently down the halls to where the Carthaginian ambassador had his quarters, doing her best to ignore the robed man following a pace behind. She liked that tune Elsa had been humming, even if it did sound rather sad. She tried out the first few bars of the song, her voice ringing off the walls the same as it always had during those lonely years before the Great Freeze. Her companion drew a short gasp of surprise as the last note faded away and she turned to him.

"Something the matter?"

The man's brow was furrowed, sandy hair falling across one of his blue eyes as he seemed to work through his confusion, "Where did you hear that song…Your Highness?"

Now it was Anna's turn to frown, "Why should that matter, mister…?"

"Redwine," He bowed his head, "Archibald Redwine, Carthaginian First Ranger Corps," He lifted his head, still inexplicably perplexed, "I only ask because…well, that's a Carthaginian funeral hymn, milady."

"A _funeral hymn_?" Anna raised one eyebrow.

Redwine nodded, "So where'd you hear it?"

"My sister was humming it earlier."

"The queen?"

"Yeah."

"Huh," Redwine seemed confused, "Where did _she_ hear it?"

"I don't know! I haven't had time to ask her," The man held up his hands in surrender, a small smile playing across his face, and Anna brought up the question that had been on her mind for a bit, "So Mr. Redwine—"

"Call me Archibald. Archie, if you prefer."

"Archie, what's a foreigner like you doing guarding the Carthage royal family?"

He bowed his head, chuckling, "Caught that, did you? You're sharper than you act," He took a deep breath, "Yes, that's right. I was born in Britain, on the border between England and Scotland."

"So what brought you here?"

"It's kind of a long story," Archie answered, "And not very interesting. Besides, we've already arrived," He said, indicating the door to Mago's chambers.

Anna nodded, but looked over her shoulder as she turned the knob, "I'll want to hear that story sometime."

"As you command, milady," He replied jokingly.

She laughed lightly as she pushed the door open, finding Tanit already in the main room. She was kneeling in front of the window, a stick of burning incense in one hand, the smoky fragrance tickling Anna's nose. Before her were seven censers, standing in a line, all but the middle one already burning as she placed in stick into the empty container. She stood and stepped back, turning to look at them.

It was Redwine who broke the silence, "All seven, milady?"

Tanit smiled and nodded, "One for the Lorn Mother, one for my own, one for my father, one for the king, one for myself, and two for my uncle."

"Two for Songbird?"

With a low laugh she turned back to the smoking line, seven little pyres, "We don't know where he is, Archibald, on land or at sea. I figured he could use the Traveler's blessing as much as the Sailor's."

"From what I know of your gods, Princess, the Sailor's blessing is a dangerous thing to beg."

"Maybe so," Tanit's mouth curved into a sly grin, "But Uncle Songbird's never had a problem with danger, now has he?"

Now Archibald had to smile as well, bowing his head, "As you say, milady."

Anna took seized the moment in the lull that followed to speak, "Tanit, I was wondering if you'd like to eat dinner with me and my sister. And your mother as well, obviously."

The other princess' smile widened, "We'd love to! Archie, go tell my mother. I'll go with Anna."

The Ranger bowed deeply, "As you command."

Anna watched as he left the room to where Mago had set up a study before turning back to her friend, "Formal, isn't he?"

Tanit chuckled as she followed the other woman out, "He's been with me for as long as I've been able to walk. He's my protector."

"Just one man?"

"One Carthaginian Ranger is worth a dozen guardsmen," Tanit said, "Archie's the youngest to ever make Senior Ranger!"

Anna raised an eyebrow. Redwine had looked about her age, maybe a little older, "How old _is_ Archie?"

"Thirty," Tanit answered promptly.

Anna was quiet for a long moment, "He looks young for his age."

"He gets that a lot. A lot of the Senior Rangers didn't think he should have applied for the position. Hell, he almost didn't."

"But he did," Anna glanced to her side, catching Tanit's eye as she smiled.

"I told him to do it," She confessed, "I told him I thought he was ready, and…well…"

"He must care a lot about you."

"Uncle Uri always used to say that I've had him wrapped around my finger since the day he laid eyes on me."

Anna laughed, waving to the painting of Joan of Arc as they passed, "You must love your uncle a whole lot."

Tanit smiled sadly as they neared the dining room, "Yes, very much so."

Anna would have liked to ask more, but Mago and Elsa were already there at the far end of the long dining table, looking tense. The prince was drumming a staccato rhythm against the back of one hand with the fingers of the other, while the queen had her hands clasped before, a pensive frown on her face like she was trying to figure something out.

Breaking the silence, Anna waved and shouted from the doorway, "Hey! We're here! How'd the meeting go?"

_Something_ passes between those two, but Anna can barely recognize it before the both of them brighten and smile and Mago answers, "Fine. It went fine. I'm sure Her Majesty will tell you everything later."

That seemed a bit too pointed, but Lady Melara entered behind them, and the food followed just as swiftly. They ate and they drank and Elsa managed to get Mago to call her by name rather than by her titles, and Anna enjoyed herself as she talked and joked with Tanit. For the rest of the night she could have fun and listen to Mago's tales of foreign lands and Tanit's stories of Utica.

And she could almost pretend she hadn't seen that look of dread that had passed between her sister and Mago.

0000000000

The captain awoke to bright, punishing daylight and the thunderous pounding of a fist on his door. With squinted eyes and a wretched groan he pushed himself up from the floor, wiping his face with the back of one hand as he blindly groped for the door and swore to high heaven never to drink any of the quartermaster's special rum ever again—an empty promise, he knew, but one he made nonetheless.

The pounding on the door was matched in intensity only by the throbbing in his head as he clawed at the knob, nearly ripping the door off its hinges as he threw it open.

"IF SOMEBODY ISN'T DEAD, THAT'S ABOUT TO CHANGE!" He roared, eyes screwed shut in that awful sunlight.

"Told you we should have left him on the bed," His helmsman said.

"If we left him on the bed, he'd have just fallen out, Mr. Richards," The first mate replied, "Note for you, cap'n. Came by messenger hawk only an hour ago."

The captain blinked blearily as a folded piece of paper was dropped in his hands, "Wha?"

"We'll have some ale waiting for you when you come to the mess, cap," Richards supplied helpfully, "The kind that we _don't_ use to strip paint. I'll be at the helm," He called out as he left.

The captain kept blinking, "I…huh?"

His first mate sighed, "Look, captain, sober yourself up, read your letter, then come to the mess. Being trapped in this French hellhole doesn't need to be any more miserable than it already is, okay?"

More in command of his mental faculties, the captain nodded and sighed, "Thank you, Martin."

The other man nodded, turning to walk away, "And maybe see about trimming your beard. It's already well past noon!"

The captain chuckled as he closed the door, scratching at his chin as he considered his first mate's words. Maybe he could use a trim. It wasn't like there was much to do around Grande-Île. Nothing but fishing and drills and endless safety inspections and waiting around for a war to start.

He could see why there were only thirty French residents before they'd leased the island to Carthage as a naval base.

He'd defected back in Bombay to _escape_ this kind of monotony, damn it! Tensions might have been high with Britain, but until someone lit the powder keg, he was stuck here unless he wanted to be running escort across the Atlantic shipping munitions to the Colonies. He wasn't so discourteous to his homeland to do that just yet. Not unless he got _very_ desperate.

In all this he realized he'd forgotten the note Martin had passed him. He picked it up, inspecting it closely. It was little more than folded parchment, with his name written on it in unfamiliar handwriting, held closed by a pressed blob of black wax.

_Black? Who in hell's name uses _black_ wax?_

He brought it close, rubbing his eye as he tried to make out the shape pressed into the wax. Was that a body? Yes, and there were two claw-like feet two, and wings, and a—

He froze, breath catching in his throat, before tearing open the note in a flurry of motion. There they were, in handwriting so familiar he'd have recognized it even if he were so old he'd forgotten his mother's face: latitude and longitude, and three words. Three words that gave him all the hope in the world.

He had to get ready. Had to look right! He rushed for the dim mirror over his desk, flattening his hair with his hands, smoothing out his beard, changing out of his grimy shirt, his sweat-stained breeches, tugging on his blue uniform coat, the nice one, with the gold trim. He gripped one last article and hesitated. Did he have a right to this? With his drunkenness of late?

_I trust you, and I know you'll wear my emblem proud._

Those words, those last words they'd exchanged rang in his head as he tugged the mantle over his shoulders, the grey and black and white silk feeling oddly heavy for something so light. He gave himself one last once-over. He was presentable.

He was ready.

He bolted out the door of his cabin, the note clenched in his hand as he took the steps to the bridge deck three at a time, his hangover and fatigue gone, replaced by this newfound energy. He reached the peak of his ascent, grinning madly as he strode up to the helmsman at the ship's wheel and began roaring orders in his captain's voice.

"Look alive, men!" He shouted, exuberant, excited, happy to be alive, "Weigh anchor! Haul loose the moorings!" Richards gaped openly at this turnabout as Martin charged onto the quarterdeck below them.

"What's the meaning of this captain?"

The captain grinned, clutching the note to his chest, "I feel a change in the wind," He cried, vaulting the railing to land beside his first mate. He turned, opening a polished chest bolted to the deck and dragged out a banner of grey and black and white as he thrust it toward the other man. His excitement still glinting in his eyes, he managed to bring his voice down to a quiet, determined order: "Run up the colors."

Martin took the grey fabric, unweighted silk, uncomprehending until he looked at the mantle draped over his captain's shoulders, and understanding dawned in his eyes.

He first said it too quiet too hear, then his face took on the same excitement that the captain felt, "BLACK FLAG!" He shouted, raising the banner above his head.

The men took up the cheer as the first mate rang the ship's bell, and all the sailors of their great vessel came pouring back from all over the island. They were underway in no time at all once the news spread. Anchors up, sails loosed, and all men before the mast.

The captain offered the note to Martin, who read it and threw his head back laughing, "He made good on his promise, sir! He called on you at last."

"Aye."

They both took a moment to marvel at the note, at those three words that had instilled hope in them all.

_Send Caro._

_-Songbird._

* * *

**Man, that was…something. The amount of research that went into that last scene was absurd, but totally worth it. I wanted to be as accurate as possible concerning naval operations (unlike most sailing movies where they just shout pirate-y sounding things—looking at you **_**Prates of the Caribbean**_**. Yarr.)**

**I tried to avoid the same info-dump that happened last chapter, although I'm still not sure if I managed to do it right. Let me know what you think. I'm still trying to work out the balance between all the information and the story. However, let me assure you—yes, **_**you, **_**dear reader—that everything I write, I write for a reason.**

**In other news, Sven shows up next chapter! And Elsa finally tells someone about these weird dreams she's been having! And there's a storm coming! (Seriously, if you're still reading by this point, you're a dedicated reader and I like you. A lot. Yes, **_**you.**_**)**

**And now, in a display of shameless begging that proves that I have no pride whatsoever, please review! Tell me what you like! Tell me what you hate. Tell me I'm great! Tell me I suck. Tell me what you want to happen next, even though I've probably already got a good idea of where it's going! Review! Review! Review!**

**Avast, me mateys! There be gold the horizon! Yarr!**

**Cortega.**


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